


Blame it on the Morphine

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Post War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-11
Updated: 2005-11-11
Packaged: 2018-10-27 01:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10798701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Hermione Granger lies on a bed in a hospital south of Switzerland. Her eyesight is lost as a result of the Final Battle, and she waits in vain for death to come. But as she sleeps, in her dreams she sees: her blue-eyed love. Is he real? Or is it just the morphine?





	Blame it on the Morphine

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Blâmez-le sur la Morphine

                by biggerstaffbunch

 

                                                                                             Rated: PG-13

_*   *   *_

June 4th, 1998- Le donateur de Vie Hopital, Switzerland

 

 

Sometimes, Hermione Mariella Granger really sort of hated her life.

 

It was sometime after her 18th birthday, a year after the Final Battle, and Hermione supposed this turn of events was to be expected. Of course she would be lying on a slim mattress atop a wire bed-frame, in a cold, silent room that smelled of antiseptic and was filled with the hum of the nearby radiator. Of course she would be doomed to spend her entire life as an invalid, with much of her left side slack and weak, her eyesight robbed of her completely. Of course she would be the only bloody English-speaking patient in the whole bloody ward, forced to listen to French radio for some sort of break from the doldrums of inactiveness.

 

Of course Ron was dead, and she was alive.

 

Wasn't she always the survivor, then? Wasn't she always the one to use her cleverness and wit to get out of jams? So of _course_ when the Final Battle came, Hermione escaped. It was just sensible, the way the universe worked, really.

 

But Ron's death had been horribly, unkarmically unfair.

 

"Yes," Hermione often wistfully rambled, partly to hear herself speak, partly to bugger out the nurses who skittered in and out with that _blasted_ bedpan, "It was the last battle of the Great War, and it was the Skirmish of Corridor 19- do you know why it was named so? No, of course not, it was named so because we f _ought_ it in the 19th Corridor of Gryffindor Tower- and I was fighting, alright. My wand was blazing and I was killing Death Eaters, and all of a sudden...Ron was gone. Bright green light, and they're both lying there, Harry and _Ron,_ and then- here I am, waking up in a bloody hospital room. Tell me they're not dead, damn you! You people _never_ tell me _anything_! He wasn't supposed to die, it was Harry, remember? Harry was the hero, _he's_ dead, and of _course_ I'm _sad_ , but Ron's still alive, he's not _dead_... _can't_ you see?"

 

But they never answered her. More often than not, they injected her with that wonderful Muggle chemical, morphine. And then Hermione got some release from the bitter, acidic pain of reality. She'd close her eyes and let the liquid drug flow through her veins, and then she was dreaming. In her dreams it was as if she was waking from some long sleep (the irony of which was not lost on her) and suddenly her eyes opened and she could _see_. There was Ron, with his vivid hair and sweet, sheepish grin. Ron with his impossible passionate nature and dry wit. Ron, tall and proud against skies of royal blue that matched his eyes...

 

_"Tu aves fait tel progrès_ ," they'd say in rapid French, that thanks to her years going to the Riviera, Hermione could understand. _"Si seulement vous arrêteriez faire ces histoires fictives. Voulez-vous aller à la section psychiatrique?_ Is that what you'd like _?"_

 

No, Hermione did _not_ want to go to the psychiatric ward. Now more than ever, she knew she wasn't crazy. That they were all Muggles and that she would never go home again. Ron was _dead_. If he weren't...Hermione would be with him in a heartbeat. Her blindness and crippled left side would be of no consequence to him- for all the rows they'd had, the two of them were so close that neither could tell where one breath ended and the next began. He accepted her unconditionally.

 

But he was dead. And so Hermione stayed, discarding her surname and taking on Ron's last name, at last joining the large family she always wished desperately to be a part of. Her dead parents gone, her fiancée dead, if only make-believe, the usage of Ron's name made Hermione feel like his wife.

 

"Madame…Weasley?" a gentle voice came.

 

Hermione flinched. Ah, Doctor RJ Weston. Somehow, the new physical therapist in the ward had a knack at interrupting Hermione's personal introspections. Arriving just days before, he had been assigned Hermione- "the least willing to, yet one with the most potential to heal". Up until now, he had respected her space and stayed a safe distance away, making idle chitchat as he asked her to do certain things. Yet he had warned her yesterday that he was "looking for some breakthroughs" today. 

 

"Doctor," Hermione acknowledged. She held her breath as she heard his solid, evenly spaced steps echo. The room was chillier than usual, and she could smell the scent of flowers mingling with the bitter tang of rubbing alcohol and musty bandages. "Did you open a window?" she asked, surprised.

 

"What? Oh, er, yes. Smells like soiled knickers in here." His voice was a bit _too_ low pitched to be very pleasant, but his bark of sharp laughter made Hermione smile a little.

 

"I'm sincerely glad that I don't know what that smells like, Doctor." Hermione stifled a sigh as she felt a slight warmth brush against her leg. The doctor was to her left then, soon to be poking and prodding.

 

"Well, to business, then, Mrs.Weasley." The doctor briskly slapped his hand against -the bed? his lab coat?- and touched Hermione's bare leg.

 

"Aiee!" Hermione screeched, half to startle the doctor and half because she couldn't believe the audacity of that man! Touching her without warning...how dare he?

 

"Well- I see your vocal chords work," his voice uttered, choked. "But there's really no need to scream. Really."

 

There was a beat. The doctor seemed to be waiting.

 

"I'm still fragile, Doctor," Hermione said, trying a different tact. "I've been through traumatic experiences." 

 

"Hmmm," there was a rustle of papers, and the warmth of the doctor's fingers hovering above her thigh showed his hesitation. "Yes, I sort of figured that- one doesn't lose their basic motor skills through lack of trying." His fingers touched her thigh and Hermione tensed as best as she could. It was a small blessing she could still feel- but not being able to shy away felt like being shackled down. "What happened?"

 

Hermione laughed bitterly, touching her right hand to her collarbone nervously. "Haven't you heard, then?" She tucked a strand of greasy hair behind her ear. "I'm _crazy_."

 

The hand on her thigh stopped. _That should show the privacy-invading bugger,_ Hermione thought smugly.

 

"Crazy in what way, Mrs. Weasley?" His hand resumed it's gentle check of her tender skin, experimentally lifting her leg and then dropping it with a small thud.

 

"Ow- I- _ow_ -" Hermione winced and wished she could see the damn doctor's face when she said this- "I'm a _witch_. Dammit. _Ow!"_

 

The man was jerking her knee up and down without any sort of preamble or warning. Hermione could tell by the tremors running through his hands that he was affected by what she had said, and she was perversely glad. "Are you a doctor, man? Or a bloody sadist?"

 

"Mrs. Weasley!" The doctor dropped her knee with another thud, and Hermione tried vainly to lift the leg from off the table. "I have put off even touching you for three days, and that is something a doctor- especially a new one at that- could get sacked for! I'm trying my best to help you and respect your wishes, but you are being bloody uncooperative!" The doctor sighed and Hermione flinched again as his hands, cold and strong, gripped her calf and placed her left leg next to her right leg. He patted her knee awkwardly. "I'm a bit- a bit new at this."

 

"Well, I don't care!" Hermione shot back hotly. Who did this tosser think he _was_? _He_ was the one who was violating her, who was trespassing her sanctuary. _He_ was the one who had just _arrived_ and expected some _instantaneous_ bond to occur! That would _never_ happen. Ron was still very fresh in her mind, and no man would ever be even her _friend_ again. Not until she had him back.

 

 "I don't care if you're new at this, it's still my body, and though I may not be in full possession of it right now, it shall always be mine and mine to control! Nothing short an Imperius Curse could take that away!"

 

Silence. "A- a wh-what?"

 

"Oh, never _mind_. I just want to go home! I ju-just....for twelve bloody months I've been here, while the grave of the man I love smolders still! I'm blind and crippled, but Doctor _RJ Weston_ -" her voce rose dangerously- "Do you realize that if I wanted to get out of here, I _very well could_?!"

 

For a moment there was abject silence, and then Hermione's shoulder was gripped and the doctor's voice spoke, neither scared nor surprised.

 

"Actually, _Miss Granger_ , you very well _couldn't_ , because you don't have your bloody wand!"

 

_What. the. bloody. hell. did. he. just. say?_

 

"'Wh-wha-what-what di-did...how did- what- who are you?" Hermione had not been called Granger in twelve months, had not heard the word "wand" from another's lips in just as long. While welcome, though, this man's presence was terribly frightening.

 

"A friend." The voice got lower, rougher. "Just- a friend. I- I was hoping to break my presence to you in a more gentle way, but...well, you always _were_ difficult."

 

"But who- how?"

 

The doctor- or whoever he was- touched Hermione's hand, the warming fingers wrapping gently around her shaking wrist. "I never wanted this to come as such a shock, Hermione." His voice hitched, and she felt the warmth emanating off of him. He was coming closer. She shrank away. "Please don't be afraid," he said, and Hermione felt a glimmer of- recognition? His voice...so low-pitched, but...

 

"I'm not going to hurt you. God...what did they do to you?" His fingers reached up (Hermione felt the swoop of air) and he touched her temple, letting his fingers brush against her eyes. "You were the...you were _brilliant_." His breathing was ragged, and Hermione felt marvel at his acting abilities. How could he have acted so benign, if he had recognized her four days ago? Yet, Hermione had to admit- he had an advantage. He wasn't blind.

 

"Yeah?" she whispered, unaccustomed to having someone touch her in such an intimate, un-clinical way. "How would...how would you know that?"

 

_Who are you to me?_

 

"In due time." The man sighed and Hermione felt a breath of air touch her cheek. The warmth was gone and she heard a creak as her legs dipped down, and she knew that he had perched upon her bed. "I- we received word that- that- well- after the battle, it was presumed that you were gone. That you were dead. With so many casualties, the Ministry made a list of the most...hopeful cases. Each case was referred to an Auror. I- I am your Auror."

 

"My- my _Auror_?" Hermione shook her head and gripped her temples. "But how did you conclude that _I_ was a _hopeful_ case?"

 

The man touched her leg, his fingers splayed against her skin. "Eyewitnesses. They say that right after the fall of- of Voldemort, that they saw you disappear in a flash of green light. We knew that commonly if there are no bodies, it is simply a Relocation spell gone awry. We spent many months separating your magical residue from others...but we finally pinpointed it to here. In Switzerland."

 

"In Switzerland," Hermione echoed. This was very unexpected, very terrifying, very- _exhilarating_. Too bad it was all for nothing.

 

"I'm sorry for all the work you seem to have put into finding me," Hermione said apologetically, surprisingly cordial and polite- detached. "But I just can't come home with you right now."

 

"Of course," the man said, his voice suddenly louder and very accommodating, "I understand completely. That your recovery will take some time." His hand clapped on her shoulder, warm and heavy and large. "I'll-" his voice seemed to hitch, "-I'll stay."

 

Hermione shook her head. The sentiment was nice, but..."No," she said firmly. "I'm sure the Ministry needs you." After a year, her brisk, business-like school-voice was back. "There are more _hopefuls_   out there that _will_ go home." She reached up and wrapped her hands gently around the steady warmth on her shoulder. Her fingers brushed the man's nails. "I'm not going home, Mr. Weston."

 

"RJ," he said in a strangled sort of voice. "Call me RJ. And please, Miss Granger, you have to go home. The Ministry can treat you far better than these Muggles. You have scars from the Dark Magic, if they're not treated you could be affected permanently." His voice seemed to lighten, deepen, meld into a tone that was alternately pleading and cajoling. So familiar...

 

"Who are you?" she asked abruptly. "How do you know me?"

 

After a moment, the doctor came closer, the hard length of his body pressing against her side. "I've known you for sometime, Miss Granger." His lips brushed against her ear; she felt the soft velvet of them, the clack of his teeth against her cartilage, the slick snake of his tongue. She shuddered and moved away slightly, dragging her prone left arm back and pushing with all her might against the doctor's coat. The man didn’t seem to take a hint, and as a laugh rumbled through his chest and his lips brushed her temple, Hermione shivered and threw her hand to the side. There was a pitcher of water in the precise spot it was every day, and for once, Hermione was going to use it. Wrapping her fingers haphazardly around the cool convex glass, Hermione lifted it up and threw the contents as hard as she could in the general direction of the man attached to her face.

 

“Arghh!” The heat that emanated off the doctor’s body suddenly dissipated, and from the man’s startled yells, Hermione knew she had gotten him. And, she realized, wrinkling her nose, gotten a good chunk of her own person wet, as well. She was drenched in water on her whole left side, her hair soaked and matted and her legs sprinkled with tiny droplets. She shook as the water chilled slightly, and scowled as she realized she’d probably catch pneumonia. 

 

"Unless you're Draco Malfoy, I'd say I don't know who you are. Never really associated with such prats in my life." she said scathingly The doctor swore and she could hear paper towels ripping as he mumbled under his breath and shuffled nearer to her. 

 

“I’m all wet, thanks to you,” he grumbled. “Why the hell do you have to be so jumpy and- well, _frustrating_?” 

 

Hermione huffed. Well, _really._

"Now I'm _really_ not going back, especially with _you._ "

 

The doctor laughed, a weary, rough sound. There were a few muffled sounds, and Hermione envisioned him patting himself dry. She felt a streak of smugness as she herself wrung a strand of her hair dry, feeling the warm water drip down the front of her shirt.

 

"Feisty as always, Miss Granger. Or should I say _Mrs. Weasley_?" He made a patronizing noise. Hermione could see an angry, dark man in her mind's eye, with a Malfoy-like sneer. "What I want to know is why you'd choose _a Weasley_ as your fake husband. Fancy being blind, crippled _and_ poor?"

 

Hermione gasped. "Don't," she said dangerously. " _Don't_ you _dare_ mock my love for him. Don't. You dirty, dirty man. How dare you come here and- and- insinuate things, and mock me- and-"

 

RJ laughed. Laughed loud and surprisingly agreeably. "I _knew_ it," he crowed, his voice light and its tone changed dramatically. "I knew you still loved him! I was just baiting you, Hermione m’dear. Wanted to see if _Weasley_ still had you head over heels in love with him."

 

Hermione shook with unrestrained anger. This man was mocking the one thing that had given her faith for the past year. " _Who_ are you," she bit off. “And _how_ dare you-“

 

"Patience," the doctor sang, his coat rustling, his damp, cool fingers touching her collarbone. "First things first- we'll have to make arrangements for where you'll be living when you come home."

 

Hermione marveled at his stupidity. "I," she declared, "think you're dim. I'm _not_ going _back._ "

 

The doctor made a derisive noise. "Now _you're_ being dim," he argued. "What do you have here? Nothing. You've got everything back home. Everything."

 

"You say you know me so well, _RJ_ , but if that was true, you'd know that I have _nothing_. Nothing left."

 

Hermione felt a weight press onto the bed and she felt a fleeting terror as she realized he was coming closer. "Stay away," she whispered.

 

"There was a time," RJ said softly, his voice hoarse and hot near her ear, "That you begged me to come closer."

 

Again, Hermione demanded, "Who are-"

 

But as soon as she swiveled her head to where she thought he was, she felt the stubble on his jaw, slightly damp, swipe her cheek. She felt the breath of air touch her lips, felt the doctor's strong, warm fingers touch her waist, felt his lips, wet and firm and hot against her mouth. She closed her unseeing eyes and tasted the cool menthol of his breath, the salty tang of sweat around his mouth, the sweet taste of something slightly wt upon his lips. _Like a drink of water,_ Hermione thought dazedly. His mouth pressed softly, insistently, hotly against hers, claiming her, his lips parting so he could delve his tongue into her mouth, tracing a path so delicious that Hermione shivered with pleasure.

 

Hermione moaned, letting her right arm close around the doctor's neck, tangling her shaking fingers in his hair. It was soft and wavy, locks that clung silkily to her fingers, locks that were thick against his warming nape. She squeezed gently and laughed deliriously in her mind as tiny droplets of water fell down her elbow and into her sleeve. He was soaking! His skin was hot and damp, and Hermione's breath came shorter as he pressed her hands to his slick jaw, his wet cheek. Hermione inhaled and she felt the world fall away as she smelled that familiar scent: rain, grass, sweat...something sweet like honey or cookies. It was home.

 

_RJ_. _Ronald. Jonathan. Ronald Jonathan Weasley._

 

She broke away. "Who- oh, my god- Ron?"

 

There was silence. Then a ragged, "Yes."

 

Hermione nodded.

 

And then she cried.

 

"You're not dead," she heaved. “You’re not dead. You're here."

 

She felt his large, capable, now-familiar hands touch her cheeks. “Always,” he breathed in her ear, holding her close to his body. “Always.”

 

“Ron…”  she sobbed softly, reaching her hands up blindly and gripping his jacket, his sweater, his skin, his hair. Touching him, smelling him, breathing him in, tasting him…”I can’t see you,” she cried. “I couldn’t see _anything_! I was so lost,” she whispered. “I was so lost.”

 

His breathing was deep and heavy as he encircled his arms around her. There was still an unfathomable sensation of being thrown into the past as she felt his breath against her ear, his lips on her temple, his fingers rubbing her back. He felt so familiar, so _warm_ even as they both clung to each other and their damp clothes touched their bodies intimately. 

 

“I found you,” he soothed. “I always will sodding find you, you idiot. I love you.”

 

Hermione nodded and clutched him once more.

 

“Ron?” she asked uncertainly, as he rocked her.

 

“Yes, She-Who-Doesn’t-Enjoy-the-Moment?” he asked with a slight hint of bemusement tingeing the tone of warmth and teary disbelievement. 

 

“Are you…are you absolutely sure this isn’t the morphine talking?”

 

His laughter filled her ears. His arms tightened around her and she nestled her face into his neck as he lowered his lips to her ear. “Why don’t you kiss me and find out, _Mrs. Weasley_?”

 

Hermione snuggled closer. “No.”

 

He gave an amused snort. “Why?”

 

“Because I might wake up.”

 

Ron laughed again and Hermione felt strong fingers wipe the tears gathering on her cheeks away. “Risk it, ‘Mione,” he whispered. “I haven’t kissed you in too long.”

 

And as their lips met in a watery, wonderful kiss, Hermione inhaled the scent of a love she thought dead. _Never,_ she thought joyously, clutching Ron closer. _Never again will I blame it on the morphine_!


End file.
